


Son of Wild

by slire



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slire/pseuds/slire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Khan feels a kinship with our tortured, dying Earth. "Your grandson will honour you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of Wild

It was from Mother Earth's womb life was brought forth.

It'd begun 3.5 billion years ago with bacteria replicating in dark waters until they evolved to advanced life forms, invading land and air. Earth went from fire to a lush landscape filled with plant life and breathing creatures. That's been fine, up to a point, where a specimen of hairless apes rose and hungered. A wild child.

(He had no been there to watch it. Yet his face twists in repulsion as he imagined the act that conceived them, and he screams in horror as humanity was birth, pasty and hairless like fat larvae.)

Maybe it'd been a mutation that'd created a natural insanity within the species. An error within the DNA structure. They went beyond the basic principles—eat, shit, die—for all living things. Humans do not create, they copy what already exists, and destroy it.

Imagine how ironic it was if their existence was because of a mistake.

('Human error,' he thinks with primitive, ancient hatred—because hatred is real and tangible and he is not. 'Hate,' he thinks madly, eyes threatening to roll back in his skull, 'I hate you all.)

Eat—

Food in mouth, oozing down a plump face: a continuous demand of "More! More! A thousand more, I'm still not satisfied!" while waving wildly with greasy fingers. He feels like removing with a hacksaw. Humanity is still in its infanthood, spoiled rotten, even devouring themselves when unsatisfied. Hunger is want in its purest form; it needn't be nourishment, it could be a thought, a god, a lover, a creation...

However, there is no empathy for the object of desire. Take food for an example. Yummy. Smell so nice, reminds them of mom. Makes them feel infantile. "I want it. That's mine. Mine, mine, mine. I got my hand on it, my brand on it. All mine." End of circulation. They want it, they get it. That's how they change it from something they haven't had, to something they have had. From something they want, to something they don't want. Into less than nothing.

Shit—

Before them, it's an object of desire. After them, it's shit. That's what humans do: they turn stuff into shit. And run the remains out at the proper level, which is way down, bellow, because they don't want to see that shit again. Yuck. "Get that out of my face, out of my life!" Into the sewers.

There's a feeding frenzy on top of the food chain. Be on guard, or someone might turn you into shit.

Die—

The final destination. No matter how much they wiggle or scream, they'll all die.

(The inhuman smile that stretches from ear to ear threatens to cut his face in half. He imagines the weight of their years pulling their flesh from their body and snickers. He sees their dissected corpse pumped full of superficial chemicals, interred into the dirt to feed the eyeless, subterranean creatures—the true conquers of the Earth—and laughs and laughs.)

In frustration and cold dread, they probe into the Earth with her own materials, desperate in their search for eternal life. In the process, they find him. They can split the very fabric of reality... blast a hundred thousand of tons of sand right up in the sky... turn everything into blackened glass. They can create 84 super humans and kill all but one of them.

(He chokes.)

And Mother Earth is screaming.

.

.

A storm is brewing.

The water is cold, and deep, and black.

In contrast, the sirens run red as the rooms in Section 13, splattered with blood of dead guards and blinking because of howling alarms. Police flock to the last rebel's sighting: a harbour on the outskirts of the city. They find the tracker (previously installed in his occipit) in a cluster of blood, hair and flesh fragment—little pieces of error, error, error. He'd ripped it out not long ago.

They do not think much of it. An officer standing nearby, eating a genetically augmented hotdog, is busy talking about her relationship. "Artemis is so strong, so mighty! Artemis is perfect for that Victorian nightie I've wanted to wear." But someone should've told her: Artemis is rough. He's on the hoof. And that's not what she wants, is it? It's the impression of savage that's tantalizing. The reality is impolite and smells bad.

It is an industrial area, cemented and built over a town as the City ate and swallowed and spewed. The project produced chemical waste, hence the treacle black colour of the water.

And Mother Earth is screaming.

He is too, but in black, polluted water, allowing saltwater into his genetically augmented lungs and stifle the noise. He chokes and spits, fighting the current, with dry lips and stinging eyes.

He falls into the darkness.

.

.

He awakens on a beach, somewhere.

He dreamt of flames and staring, vacant eyes.

"Mother," he rasps, attempting to stand, clothes loose rags around his body. His body is scrubbed raw from salt and sand, and he drags himself up along the shore while the waves steadily hit him. He is naked and blind when he rises, reborn from darkness.

"Mother!" he tries again, and falls. He crawls on all fours over to a spot of fertile earth, where metal and glass have yet to reach. It triggers a base instinct, and sooner than he knows, he claws at the earth until he finds fresh roots and nuts. It does not taste good but it is realer than any artificially made substance, and makes his mouth water. Dirt mends with the blood underneath his fingernails.

"Thank you, Mother," he breathes, and collapses. He rests, for a little while. The City surrounds him, closing in on all sides. But this will be his haven for now. "You are so very generous, even if I'm not your real child. I'm the creation of your humans; your disease." His lip curls. "But are we not alike? I, too, know what it feels like having a part of you ripped out, leaving nothing but a black hole. Both of us have been subjected to ages of torture, screaming in silence. Not anymore."

He grabs a handful of earth and lets it drizzle to the ground.

"I guess there were creatures here, ones. Little birds that carried food for miles to their children. Frogs that hibernated for months to wait for the fresh water that never came. Are they all dead now? Did you watch them starve, unable to do anything? I, too, have seen death. But do not worry, Mother."

His eyes are like the dark, corrupted water.

"Your grandson will avenge you."

His answer is silence.

He takes this as agreement.

Mother Earth has stopped screaming.

**Author's Note:**

> Further analysis / comparison to Turbine Womb: Some mothers squeal at the chance to press out a mindless sack of gurgles and repeats, but others (humanity) have standards. The baby has to be perfect. We pierced the fluid of the NEX6 series, and the other ones (rest of Khan's crew) we took the vacuum to. Why explaining things to what doesn't matter? Khan was the one that kicked; that became something. He's sort of an accident, or a miscarriage—meant to be a war machine, ended up as a reflection of mankind instead. Vengeance is not a word in a machine's system.


End file.
